Page 35 of Revisions

Jameson will tell anyone who cares to listen that politics have never interested her—not beyond her duties in the voting booth. She possesses some of the best political instincts I’ve ever encountered. It reminds me that there is a deep well of untapped political talent that we seldom seek to tap. She’s insightful. I always say politics is about people. Jameson is outgoing but doesn’t enjoy being on stage; she prefers to observe what’s happening around her. I couldn’t have chosen a better partner for this journey into the White House. It’s funny. She’d much rather be tinkering on a project in the old barn back in Schoharie than attending State Dinners or making public speeches. She has a unique way of bringing politicshome. Her idea is brilliant. It’s heartfelt.

“Bad idea?” Jameson asks.

“No. I think it’s a brilliant idea. I’m wondering why you don’t run for office—or run my next campaign.”

“No thanks.”

“I’m serious,” I say.

“No, you aren’t,” she returns. “But you are sincere. No way. I am more than happy to play tour guide for an afternoon.”

“And get pizza as a reward.”

“It’s a bonus. Can we partner with Rossi’s?” Jameson asks.

I giggle at the whimsical tone in Jameson’s voice. Rossi’s is a popular Italian restaurant near our townhome in Arlington. One thing I know frustrates Jameson is the act of Congress required to order a pizza at the White House. Everything must be planned, checked, and approved. Scheduling a pizza party gives her an excuse to order her favorite food.

“Come on, Candace. It’ll be great! You can tout your support of small business at the same time!”

That does it; I burst out laughing.

“Why is that funny?” Jameson asks.

“You really are a lunatic, honey.”

“Maybe I’m just hungry.”

This is why I love Jameson so much. She is authentic to her core. No one has made me laugh as earnestly or as often as Jameson. It’s been a stressful day. She knows this without me uttering a word, and she also knows how to replace the strain with humor—if only for a few moments.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“No thanks necessary. Rossi’s will do.”

I chuckle. “Tell you a secret?”

“Is it classified?”

“Not this one. I’m glad I’ll be home early,” I confess. “Maybe I can make lasagna.”

“Maybe you should just come home and let me and Coop handle dinner.”

“You mean I should let you call the kitchen.”

“No. We can cook for you,” Jameson says. “Scared?”

I’m not scared at all. I know what will happen: either I will be served mac and cheese and hot dogs, or Pearl will rescue them with lasagna or a casserole. I’m confident Jamesoncouldmaster the kitchen beyond designing or building one. She prefers tofix the sink, install the cabinets, or create a new table and let me handle the baking and cooking. I don’t mind. It’s one thing I miss about being home. I appreciate the fact that my family wants me to take time off. Cooking doesn’t feel like work for me. It gives me a sense of being athome.

“I appreciate the offer. Let me handle dinner tomorrow,” I request.

“Far be it from me to turn down lasagna. Sundaes and Monopoly after dinner?”

“Hoping to send me to the cleaners again?” I ask.

“Well, you were a lawyer. You should’ve posted bail.”

The last time we spent an evening playing Monopoly, I was sent to jail every other turn. Cooper ended up owning almost every property and bankrupting both Jameson and me in record time.

“Maybe we should skip Monopoly and head to a galaxy far, far away with our sundaes.”

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